


Too Much Red

by TciddaEmina



Category: Hannibal (TV), Soul Eater
Genre: Cannibalism, Explicit Descriptions, Explicit thought of wounds, Gen, Kinshin, M/M, Madness, Major Character Injury, Meister Hannibal, Meisters, Non explicit romance, Scars, Soul Cannibalism, Souls, Weapon Will, Weapons, Witches, dwma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TciddaEmina/pseuds/TciddaEmina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years have passed but the memory still haunts him like a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hasn't really been edited much, so if you see any mistakes kindly point them out and I'll fix it up. Apart from that I hope you like it.

Will Graham knows what people call him being his back. The name follows him like a disease where ever he goes, spreading through the population like a epidemic until he could hear it every time he turned his back.

It had become so common in the Maryland that he’d been hearing it more often than his own name. Every day a reminder of the thing he would give most to forget. It was enough to make the scar across his belly throb with remembrance.

So when an offer came, from Death himself no less, to come and teach at the Death Weapon Meister Academy, Will hadn’t dismissed it immediately like he would any other job offer. It could be an escape. A chance to make a clean break and put the whole thing behind once and for all.

So he accepted the offer. Packed up his meager belongings and moved the Death City. The first day went well. He introduced himself to the students, younger than he was used to teaching but they would do, and got to work trying to teach them the intricacies of identifying and tracking down budding Kinshin.

The next day started similarly, and he thought maybe, just maybe, it would work. Then he heard it, as whisper as he walked into the class for the afternoon class.

_The Brittle Blade._

The name used to make him flinch. It still did, he had just mastered the art of keeping it internal. The class silenced at the sight of him, and it was a damning silence. He did what he always did and took a deep breath and continued with his lesson as if nothing had happened.

It was too late to stop it. The flow of rumor was something he had long learned was unstoppable. By that evening the name had spread around the school, the story of its origin following right behind.

When he came in the next day he could hear it flying through the school, passed from mouth to mouth in hushed voices. Words he had heard a thousand times over, each time he heard them more painful than the last.

_They say he’s sharper than diamond and stronger than steel, but one wrong move and he’d break apart in your hands. That he’s just as likely to cut anyone who partners with him as he is to cut the enemy._

_His Meister was-_

Will always forces himself to stop listening at that point. To do anything else was to invite the pain he’d spent so long trying to forget. It was over now, in the past. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to think about it.

He buried this thoughts beneath the drone of the lesson, trying to drown out the memories with the practiced words. It didn’t work. They were like seeds, and now they were starting to grow again. With every second that passed they grew stronger, digging in roots and burrowing deep. And then they flowered.

And Will could remember the scent of cologne. Expensive and distinct, yet subtle enough to be tasteful.

The way he always had a pocket handkerchief folded primly in his top pocket. Silk, always silk, and in the proper colour to compliment that day’s suit.

His hands had always been firm when he wielded Will. Smooth and unhesitant. In every fight it had felt like Will was an extension of his body. Their souls so synchronized they didn’t need to speak, but were able to move together as one entity rather than two.

And -

And he could remember the way the blade had felt. Cold and hungry as it sank into his stomach and drew a line through his flesh, baring his guts to the open air.

He ended the class as early as was acceptable and fled with swift steps to the nearest bathroom. He ran his hands through the water and cupped some to splash his face, anything to try and wake himself up from the memories. The water was a cold shock against his skin, yet he feared it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to wake him from the nightmare his life had become that day, only three years ago.

When he looked in the mirror he saw haunted eyes and a face with a broken smile. Numbness had become his default setting, interrupted only by moment of agonizing misery.

He unbuttoned his shirt, baring the scar to the word. It was a long rope of knotted flesh stretching across his stomach, curving up around his hip. He traced it with his fingertips and remembered what it had felt like when he’d been pressing his hands against it and trying to keep himself from bleeding to death.

Wounds made while human weren’t supposed to show up when you transformed to weapon form, yet this one did. The scar was a visible crack through the dark metal of his blade, spreading like a spider’s web across it’s surface. It was a fissure not only through his body, but through the very core of his being. 

It always looked like a single pinpoint of pressure in the wrong place would would shatter him apart at any moment. He hadn’t yet, but it was always a looming threat. No wonder they called him the Brittle Blade.

The sound of the bathroom door opening pulled him from his thoughts. It was one of the other teachers at the Acadamy, Dr. Stein Will thinks his name was. When he enters he’s in the motions of turning the large screw hammered into the side of his head and each rotation clicks loudly in the silence of the bathroom. 

When he see’s Will he stops, his eyes going sharp with interest. His gaze falls to the scar and when he looks up Will can see a sharp edge of madness in his eyes. It enough to make Will swallow thickly and hastily button up his shirt. When he looks up again the madness is gone, and in its place is a look of knowledge and understanding.

That, somehow, is worse. Will’s had enough understanding in the last few years to know how bitter it tastes and how much hollower it makes him feel.

He leaves the bathroom without a word.

The first week draws to a finish slowly, and the next comes and goes at the same pace. The whispers continue to follow him around the Acadamy and even through the streets of Death City. The same words, echoed over and over again until they feel like a mountain on his shoulders.

He knows it wont stop so he does as he always does. He endures and tries to forget.

His classes continue, but now the students who had so eagerly asked questions are silent. He tries to say the loss doesn’t bother him, but he knows he’s lying.

Will is quick to fall into a routine just to pass the time. He does his lectures then he goes home and spends silent hours trying to keep himself occupied. Finally he sleeps, dreams of memories more akin to nightmares, and wakes again to complete the cycle once more.

Death City is located right in the middle of Nervada. Desert surround the city on all sides and there are no rivers in which to while away the hours fishing. With his usual pastime gone Will is forced to find new alternatives. His dogs occupy him a while, but even then there is only so much time he can spend petting them or playing fetch. He’s never spent so much time reading in his life.

Two months into his stay at Death City the Acadamy is attacked by a witch. Her name is Medusa, and apparently she’d been posing at the school nurse. The attack is a good distraction, even when he ends up locked in one of the towers with a hundred other party goers and Lord Death for almost an hour. The crowd makes him uncomfortable, but the wild theories they make up about what is going on outside is enough to keep him amused throughout.

Then the Kinshin is released, and it strikes far too close to home. The barrier keeping them in fades and Lord Death blasts a hole through the wall in his rush to stop the Kinshin. There’s nothing anyone can do, so Will just hunches his shoulder’s against the memories threatening to surface and follows the stream of the crowd out of the tower and into the city, where the fighting has already stopped.

The next day several students are missing for his class, still recovering in the infirmary after fighting against last nights attack. He accepts their absence without a word, numbly noting that Maka Albarn is one of the ones missing. A brief thought towards her wellbeing is all he allows before setting the matter aside and concentrating on teaching the lessons.

Life continues on as usual and the students soon return to his class, this time with a new student in tow. He takes one look at Corona and stops. He can see what that boy is, read it in his every gesture and feel it reflected of the empathy mirrors in his mind.

His soul is not yet the scaled red of a fledgling Kinshin, but its close. It’s a sight he’s seen before, one that he hadn’t wanted to accept at the time. It’s what his soul had looked like, right before-

Will stops and forcibly derails from that line of thought. It won’t go away forever he knows, but he puts it aside anyway. He can face it later, when he’s at home, alone, and not in front of a class of suggestible teenagers. Still it niggles in the back of his head for the next hour, testing the edges of his thoughts in anticipation like crows picking at a corpse. He ties them down and away, and only hopes it keeps as necessary.

He lasts the rest of the class, and even through a meeting with Death when Will goes to confirm they know Corona is a borderline Kinshin. Apparently they already know. Somehow that fails to comfort him.

He walks quickly through the streets, avoiding eye contact with everyone he sees. Then he gets home and shuts the door behind him.

And the crows break free.

He sinks to the floor, his back to the door and his breath hitching with sobs. The memories flock through his head and tear at each thought, filling his head with the betrayal he had felt and the taste of his own blood in his mouth. The way he’d hugged Will close and whispered apologies, confessions, even as he dug the blade in deeper.

The tinge of his soul. Clear blue until it wasn’t. Until all Will could see was damning red.

And when Will had learnt the true nature of the meticulous meals he had delighted in feeding him...

A bitter laugh bubbled up between the sobs and Will sunk the palms of his hands into his eyes in a futile attempt to block the cruel reality from sight. He sat alone in the dark, trying to pull himself back together as his dogs whined from behind the next door.

Half an hour later his eyes are still red and he feels even more broken than before. He’s sure that if he changes into his weapon form the cracks will have grown and spread all the way through him.

He pulls himself to his feet, barely, and opens the door. The dogs rush out around him like a flood, nosing at him and wagging their tails in happy welcome. Will can’t return their enthusiasm, and that makes him feel even worse. He sits himself down in an armchair once the dogs have wandered away again. All but Winston, who comes beside him and sits, pushing his head under Will’s hand. Will stokes his hands across Winston’s fur and tries to breath as his world fall apart around him inch by inch.

He clings to his routine after that, gasping at any means of keep him himself upright and functioning. He does his classes, plays with the dogs, reads, and pretends everything is alright.

There’s an edge of madness to the air that’s been growing of late. Just small things, but noticeable enough to those who know. Will has been there before, with the encephalitis. He can recognize the signs even small as they are. The hint of bags beginning to form around eyes. Smiles a little too wide. People walking that little bit faster in the street. 

It makes him uneasy, and he keeps to himself even more. Drawing back from people in general. The dogs are a comfort then, and he spends more time than ever in their company.

He keeps an eye on the madness and watches it grow. It’s not noticeable yet, but it will be soon. Another month passes and in that time he has another two break downs. It’s a new record for him, and one he is displeased at.

Another month and more break downs. The tension around the city is growing, and its reflected on his internal state. His mirrors are becoming cloudy with other people’s emotions and thoughts. His head is becoming more noisy, and he has to pull on every memory, even those he swore to forget, just to prove to himself he’s still there.

And then it comes to a head. The witch Arachne has struck a deal with the Kinshin, and together they spread madness across the sky in the form of clouds. Red clouds.  
Will look up at them and tries not to laugh hysterically. Because its always red. Red like his own blood. Red like a Kinshin soul. Red like madness in the sky.

He looks away and his face is grim. He feels numb and empty, like a puppet with cut strings. A broken doll filled with too many memories.

There’s too much red in his life.

His routine breaks as the Acadamy and all its students prepare for war against Arachne and her organization, Arachnophobia. He’s recruited too, but there will be not partner to weild him. He’s a Death Scyth, has been one for years. He can wield himself.

And he does.

The battle is huge, on a completely different scale from the usual skirmishes the Acadamy and its members usually engage in while fulfilling their duties. The enemy has golems twice as big as any man, and four times as strong. Will focuses on those, because it hurts less to kill something that’s as empty inside as he is.

He flashes in and out of his weapon form as he moves, changing as needed for maximum impact. The golems lie shredded in his wake, cut though like they were made of nothing more than cardboard.

It’s when he’s turning to kill another that he see’s it. It doesn’t take more than a glimpse in the corner of his eye for him to stop and whisper. Because he would know those suits anywhere.

_“Hannibal.”_

He wants to walk away and not look back. That what he should do. That’s what any sane man would do. But his feet are rooted to the spot. He’s stuck there, staring at the man who had once been his friend and who now featured in so many of his nightmares.

His arm had been a blade, made of dark metal riddled with stark white cracks, yet it fades back into its human form as if by its own volition. He knows he wouldn’t be able to kill him, not matter how much he sometimes wished he could.

There had been so many things he had wanted to say, but now they seem insignificant as he stares into maroon eyes. Hannibal’s gaze was sharp as always, but not quiet cold. There was an edge of uncertainty there, and affection.

They had been close once, closer than anything, and it seemed the feeling still remained.

“Will.” Hannibal says, and Will’s eyes shutter closed at the sound of his accent. So familiar, yet it felt like he hadn’t heard it in a million years. He savors the sound of it, memorizes it and sets it deep into his memory.

His eyes blink open and he opens his mouth to say something only for the words to get stuck in his throat. What does he say in this situation? When his mind is saying _no no no_ but his heart is saying _yes yes yes_?

Hannibal seems to find something in his silence, for the warm in his eyes shatters into pieces. He blinks once, and turns his eyes away to hide the hurt.  
It’s a sight that breaks Will’s heart and he’s speaking before he knows what he’s saying.

“Hannibal.” Just that name, once, and its enough.

Hannibal meet his eyes again and he breath in a sharp breath at the adoration he finds in the eyes of Will Graham. He breaths Will’s name with a smile blooming on his lips and hold out his hand.

Will surrenders to the change wholeheartedly. Skin and soft flesh turn to dark metal lined with a razor edge. His next breath and he is in Hannibal’s hands once again, the long wooden length of his staff held firmly between warm hands. He is a scythe, long and wicked, made of dark wood and even darker metal. 

One of Hannibal’s hands comes up and runs tenderly over the light cracks stretching across the surface of the blade and its enough to make Will shiver. Hannibal makes an appreciative sound at the sight.

Their souls are nestled close together like this, pressed tight together and fizzing with electric connection. He can feel Hannibal’s core like this. Hannibal’s always been smooth and sharp, but now Will can feel it so much more. Hannibal’s soul is red with the blood he’s shed but Will can’t find it in himself to care. Not when Hannibal’s warm and soft and loving in every place where his soul touches Will’s.

It feels like coming home, Will decides. Hannibal picks up on the thought and hums his own agreement, tightening his fingers comfortingly around Will.


End file.
